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  He made straight for the king. Then he bowed to him courteously, but not too low. The famous men who sat nearby forgot to carry food to their lips. A sudden silence descended on the marquee. And now when Steinar of Hlíðar stood facing royalty, he once again smoothed his hair down across his brow; then he began to speak, addressing the king as befitted a good Icelandic farmer in the sagas:

  “My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Hlíðar in Steinahlíðar,” he said. “I bid the king welcome to Iceland. We are of the same kin, according to the genealogy which Bjarni Guðmundsson of Fuglavík prepared for my grandfather. I am of Jutland origin, descended from King Harald hilditönn, who fought the battle of Brávellir.”*

  “I beg your Majesty’s indulgence,” said one of the notables in Danish, edging his way in front of Steinar and bowing to the king. “I am this man’s sheriff,” he said, “and it is not with my consent that he comes barging in on you like this, sire.”

  “We are pleased to hear what this man has to say,” said the king, “if you would interpret for us.”

  Sheriff Benediktsson spoke up at once and said that this man had bidden the king welcome, with the observation that they were distant kinsmen. “I crave your Majesty’s pardon that our farmers all speak like this,” he said. “They cannot help it. The sagas are their lifeblood.”

  King Kristian replied, “This has just about convinced me that most kings would find it does not pay to argue genealogies with farmers here in Iceland. Has this gentleman anything else to say to us?”

  Steinar Steinsson continued his address:

  “Since I have heard, my dear and excellent king, that we have much in common as regards lineage and standing (for you, I understand, are a farmer from down south in Gotaland), I wish to proffer you the thanks of my district for giving us what is already ours, namely, permission to walk upright here in Iceland. No one can receive a better gift from those in power over him than permission to be what he is and not something else. And now for my part I wish to return your generosity in my own modest way. In my family we have always had good horses; and I myself am said to have a not unhandy colt, as my sheriff can confirm better than anyone else, for he is one of the eminent men who have offered to buy him in exchange for gold and gratitude. And now, since you have brought us justice to this country, I am going to hand over the reins of this nag as a token gift in return. The beast is now in the care of their lordships at the door; but I would be grateful if I could have the bridle back at your earliest convenience.”

  Kristian Wilhelmsson first had this speech translated into Danish; but he was still not fully clear about the meaning of it, and so he called upon his page to translate it into his mother-tongue, German. The more interpretations he was given of it, the more remarkable a speech he thought it.

  “Let us go and see this animal,” he said at last.

  They walked to the entrance to the marquee, where a groom was holding the pony by the reins and a crowd of people had gathered from all sides to have a look at so admirable a mount. The pony was trembling slightly at the withers; he did not like being handled and stared at by so many people. The king saw at once that this was a handsome creature; he went over to the pony and patted him gently but firmly, as all good horsemen should, and the pony calmed down. He turned to some baron who was standing nearby and said to him in German, “Perhaps I am after all the right sort of barbarian chieftain to be king over the Icelanders. But I shall not accept anything for nothing from these farmers. Let it be paid for in full from my exchequer, through the proper authorities.”

  Then the king took leave of Steinar of Hlíðar with a hand-clasp, and said that he would never forget such a gift. He also said that Steinar should just mention his name if ever he found himself in any difficulties, for Steinar would always have the king for a friend.

  Steinar of Hlíðar thanked him for the kind reception and walked away out of sight of his king and his pony, away from the great millennial festivities.

  7

  Church-going

  Steinar of Hlíðar hoisted his saddle on his back and set off for home. He took the track along the south side of the lake through the wood which has stood there for thousands of years and is unique because it never grows taller than the height of a man, or higher than a man can reach; everything above that is sheared off by the cold. All these stunted trees bent to the will of the wind. Then he followed the paths along the stream that flow out of Þingvallavatn (Lake Þingvellir) towards the lowlands and the main track to his home district. He walked all day and far into the night; it had begun to rain and the ground was wet, giving off a wonderful aroma. Midsummer was past, the two months when night did not exist; but one could scarcely call the nights dark yet. An occasional farm-dog gave tongue as he passed. He came to a meadow full of haycocks, where he put the saddle down for a pillow, spread hay over himself, and munched half a rye-scone that tasted utterly delicious, even though it was as tough as a saddle-flap. It was the last of his provisions. Before he fell asleep he recited to himself:

  Wet and weary down I lay,

  Far too tired to wander;

  Saddle down among the hay

  In the meadow yonder.

  Next morning he called at a farm. The farmer was already up, and he asked the visitor if he were a Mormon. Steinar of Hlíðar said he was not—“unfortunately not, I almost said,” he added. “I come from Steinahlíðar, farther east.”

  “Well, if you say you’re not a Mormon, you aren’t one,” said the farmer. “I’ve never heard of a Mormon who didn’t acknowledge he was one before being asked, even though he knew it would cost him a beating.”

  “We are all inclined to take pride in our heresies,” said Steinar. “I in mine, you in yours. By the way, could I ask you for something to drink?”

  “Girls!” the farmer shouted into the house. “Give this man here a drink of whey. And a bit of cod’s head.”

  Soon the sun shone from a clear sky. By the afternoon one could see mirages. The sea rose trembling into the sky. The Vestmannaeyjar had floated up to heaven.

  Steinar of Hlíðar had almost forgotten that it was Sunday, until a crowd of churchgoers rode past him. Someone said he had a fine saddle there.

  “Indeed I have,” said Steinar. “And a riding-crop, what’s more. But the bridle I have mislaid.”

  They offered him a pony, but he preferred to walk. The farmers said that this was unlike folk from Steinahlíðar.

  “That’s quite right, good people,” said Steinar. “This is just a little fellow passing through—so little, in fact, that he cannot become any smaller by not being on horseback.”

  Steinar reached the church on foot much later than the others; when he arrived at this unfamiliar place of worship, everyone had already gone inside for the service. Outside, there was that peculiar sense of human withdrawal that pervades a parish-of-ease every Sunday between noon and three in the afternoon. A few ponies stood drowsing in the corral; but the dogs sprawled around at the lich-gate or the church-porch and howled at the Vestmannaeyjar because they had floated up to heaven. There was not a human being within sight. The glad sound of singing could be heard from inside the church. Steinar was pleased when he realised that he had arrived in time for the second benediction.

  But as he followed the path up from the farmhouse to the church he caught sight of three old tethering-blocks standing in a field; they were no longer in use, because either the farm had been shifted or else the church had. When he looked more closely at the boulders, however, he saw that some large and untidy bundle had been tethered to the middle block. He went over to see what it could be, and found that it was a man.

  “Well I never,” said Steinar.

  This man had been gagged and bound and the rope made fast to the iron staple in the boulder. Steinar went up to him and contemplated the state he was in.

  “Can I be right? It’s surely not the Mormon, is it?” he said.

  The prisoner was hatless and his mop of hair stuck out in all d
irections. In daylight his colour was reddish-brown, like a tanned hide, and the gag made his face look distorted. Steinar of Hlíðar at once set about removing the gag, which turned out to be a round stone picked from the mud. The man spat a few times when he had got rid of it; there was some dirt in his mouth, and his gum was bleeding slightly. The two men greeted one another.

  “You have had a bit of a roughing up,” said Steinar of Hlíðar, and went on untying the rope.

  “Oh, I’ve known worse,” said the Mormon, and reached into his pocket for his spectacle case. “I’m lucky they did not break my glasses.”

  “What a way to treat a stranger,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And these are supposed to be Christians!”

  “Am I muddy at all?” asked the Mormon.

  Steinar coiled the rope up carefully like the tidy man he was, and laid it on the tethering-block. Then he brushed the Mormon down a little.

  “There is little I can say,” said Steinar. “Criticizing others will not make me any bigger.”

  “When have Christians behaved in any other way?” said the Mormon. “They began to fall into the Great Apostasy right from the days of the Primitive Church.”

  “Excuse me, but where is your hat?” said Steinar.

  “It’s safely hidden away,” said the Mormon. “But it’s very odd that they should never try to take my topboots away, considering how good they are.”

  “You must be a fearless sort of man,” said Steinar. “It’s just as well, if you have to put up with injustice.”

  “Big dogs are the worst,” said the Mormon. “I’ve always been a bit scared of dogs. I was bitten by a bitch when I was small, actually.”

  “Where are you going now, if I may ask?”

  “I’m on my way to the Vestmannaeyjar. The people there used to be the worst rogues in Iceland, but now they are the best of the lot. The Latter-Day Saints are given sanctuary there.”

  “Did you get hold of the king?” asked Steinar.

  “What business is that of yours? Who are you?”

  “My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Steinahlíðar. I am the man who was looking for a spot to bed down at Þingvellir the other night.”

  “My goodness, hallo there, friend!” said the Mormon, and kissed him. “I had a vague feeling I recognized you. Thanks for the last time. No, I did not meet the king—the Icelanders saw to that, all right. But he sent me his greetings, and said that Joseph Smith was certainly not banned in the Danish kingdom.”

  “Are you getting your pamphlets back?” asked Steinar.

  “Not from the Icelanders,” said the Mormon. “But one of those gold-braided Danes put my case to the king, who is a decent German. He came back and said that I could have all my stuff back if I cared to go to Copenhagen for it. That’s the Germans all over. And if the Danes have lost them, the king promised that I could have as many pamphlets printed in Copenhagen as I wanted and then take them to Iceland and give them away or sell them just as I wished—it had been unlawful of the Icelanders to take them off me in the first place. I knew that already, for that matter; and also that the Icelanders were a much more insignificant race than the Danes—although the Germans, of course, are much better than both.”

  “You are perhaps on your way to Copenhagen now to have the new pamphlets printed?” asked Steinar.

  “Books don’t make themselves, my friend,” said the Mormon. “The printing isn’t the whole of it, by any means. It’s a fearful prospect for an uneducated farmhand from the Landeyjar (Land-Isles) to have to start composing books to convert a nation like the Icelanders. The only consolation is that the Lord is Almighty.”

  “Indeed He is,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And perhaps we are still in time for the second benediction even though it is on the late side now.”

  “I have already tried to go to church once today, and I am not trying again,” said the Mormon. “It is unnecessary to get oneself thrown out of chapels like these more than once a day. You go yourself, brother. And give my regards to God. What we humans have to put up with from God is as nothing to what God has to put up with from humans in this country.”

  “Farewell then, friend, and may God be with you,” said Steinar of Hlíðar.

  But when the Mormon had gone a little way across the field he turned towards Steinar again; he had forgotten to thank him. Steinar had not yet gone into the church, but was picking his way carefully through the dogs at the lich-gate.

  “Thanks for setting me free!” shouted the Mormon.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Steinar. “I forgot something.”

  He picked up his saddle and hoisted it on his back, then walked across the field to the Mormon again. “I think it is rather too late to go to church in any case,” he said. “Perhaps we can keep each other company for a step or two.”

  “Hallo again,” said the Mormon.

  They walked away from the church together. When they reached the edge of the field the Mormon leaned down and pulled his hat out of a niche in the wall; it was carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper as before. There was also a bundle nearby containing the Mormon’s change of underclothing. He smoothed his hair into place with his hand and placed the hat neatly on his head in the sunshine.

  “I forgot to ask you your name,” said Steinar.

  “So you did,” said the Mormon. “My name is Bishop Þjóðrekur.”

  “Well I never,” said Steinar. “That’s quite a thought. As I was going to say: that’s a great country you come from.”

  “Isn’t that just what I was telling you? What of it?”

  “I have been thinking about it since that evening at Þingvellir,” said Steinar. “And I am no more likely to forget it after this. Anyone who goes out of his way to get himself beaten up and tethered outside a church because he refuses to recant—there must be something in what he believes. I cannot understand why people in this country should be put off from going over to your country simply because there is immersion there. I think you are probably right in what you say, that according to the Bible there ought to be immersion. Why do the Icelanders not want to go from a bad country to a good country since it costs so little?”

  “Oh, I never said it costs little,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “You picked me up wrong there. You can’t get much for little, my friend, no sirree.”

  “Of course, I should have known,” said Steinar. “I should have guessed that immersion alone does not take you far. What costs you nothing is worth nothing. Excuse me, but what has it cost you, if I may ask?”

  “What’s that to you?” asked the bishop.

  “I was thinking of myself,” said Steinar, “and how much I was man enough to afford.”

  “That’s your own affair,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “But if we come upon a stream of clear water I could immerse you.”

  “And then what?” asked Steinar.

  “You have freed me,” said the bishop, “and you are due your own ransom. But I can only say in the Apostle’s words: silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I give thee.”

  “Ah well, bless you, it is a kind offer and a kind thought,” said Steinar. “But if you are heading south for Eyrarbakki I think we are at the crossroads now and our paths must part for a while. It has been very pleasant meeting you. So goodbye for now and may God be with you for ever and ever, and think kindly of me.”

  “And the very same to you, my lad,” said the Mormon.

  “And if you ever happen to be in Steinahlíðar, no one will set the dogs on you at Hlíðar.”

  With that they parted, each on his own way, one to the east and the other to the south. But when they were a stone’s throw from one another, Bishop Þjóðrekur suddenly came to a halt.

  “I say, there!” he shouted. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, did I not tell you?” the other shouted back. “My name is Steinar Steinsson.”

  “Were you asking what it cost me to become a Mormon?” asked Bishop Þjóðrekur.

  “Forget it, fr
iend,” said Steinar.

  “Only the man who sacrifices everything can be a Mormon,” said the bishop. “No one will bring the Promised Land to you. You must trek across the wilderness yourself. You must renounce homeland, family and possessions. That is a Mormon. And if you have nothing but the flowers that people in Iceland call weeds, you must take your leave of them. You lead your young and rosy-cheeked sweetheart out into the wilderness. That is a Mormon. She carries your baby in her arms and hugs it close. You walk and walk, day after day, night after night, for weeks and for months, with your belongings on a handcart. Do you want to be a Mormon? One day she sinks to the ground from hunger and thirst, and dies. You take from her arms your baby daughter who has never learned to smile; and she looks at you with questioning eyes in the middle of this wilderness. A Mormon. But a child cannot get warm against a man’s ribs. Few can replace a father, none a mother, my friend. Now you trudge alone across the wilderness for miles and miles with your daughter in your arms; until one night you realise that the biting frost has nipped the life from these tiny limbs. That is a Mormon. You dig a grave with your hands and bury her in the sand, and put up a cross of two straws that blow away at once. That is a Mormon. . . .”

  8

  Secret in mahogany

  Now the family at Hlíðar were continually glancing out towards the shoulder of the hill to the west, where travellers from the south were first to be glimpsed. The plan was to have some milk in a pail and a lump of butter ready to thrust into the pony’s mouth when he came back from his long and tiring journey as ravenous as a wolf.

  The golden plover was curiously subdued that summer, and scarcely a whistle was heard from the oyster-catcher. It was also one of those late-summer times when the cliffs of Steinahlíðar sent back no echoes. One shouted, but received no reply. The fulmar drifted silently under the black cliffs.